


Parents' Love

by SlantedKnitting



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Era, Canon-Typical Violence, Episode: s01e09 Excalibur, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-22
Updated: 2019-09-22
Packaged: 2020-10-11 19:03:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20551172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlantedKnitting/pseuds/SlantedKnitting
Summary: Arthur just wants to be able to prove himself to someone.





	Parents' Love

Arthur was born out of love. His parents were married, enamoured, and he was wanted.

That was the story he’d been told his entire life—by his father, by his father’s friends, by his mentors, by his tutors, by the court genealogist. His mother was so happy, they all said, to be having a child. So happy to be starting a family. So happy to be with her husband.

That she died in the process of giving birth was not his fault, they all said. Her greatest wish had been for him to live. How anyone could have known that was beyond Arthur, but he tried to believe it, anyway. He tried to believe that everything he did was something she would have wanted, that she would be proud of him, that she would love him.

The truth was that she was long gone. Arthur never knew her, his father never spoke of her, and she was like a myth. A happy, beautiful, loving myth that Arthur chose to believe was watching over him, protecting him, sharing a life with him.

These thoughts helped get him through the harder times, but they also made it harder to get through the happier times. He always wanted her there—really there, not just in his heart—and sometimes that ache was overwhelming.

He never let it defeat him, though. He was strong, he was brave, he was wise, he was in control.

That was what he told himself as his father set the crown on his head.

The applause was muffled, the crowd blurry. All Arthur could hear was his father’s voice, all he could see was his father’s face. He was of age, he was the heir, and one day this kingdom would be his.

~~~

It wasn’t fair, Arthur thought as he watched Owain square his shoulders. The Black Knight had come for _him_, he was sure of it. He’d rode in—ruining a perfectly good celebration—and stopped dead in front of Arthur. He was there to fight Arthur.

But Arthur wasn’t the one fighting him. Owain had taken up the gauntlet first, and now Arthur was just a spectator. One of them was going to die, the Black Knight or Owain, and it wasn’t fair. It should have been Arthur.

It should have been Arthur with the sword and the shield and the chainmail. It should have been Arthur with the quick footwork and decisive blows. It should have been Arthur with the upper hand, proving himself, proving his worth, proving his rightful place as prince.

Instead it was Owain, stumbling, jabbing blindly, falling.

He died defending his honour, the honour of his prince, and it wasn’t fair.

Arthur tried to make it right. The Black Knight threw down the gauntlet again, staring down Arthur through his helmet, and Arthur stood, ready to accept the challenge. It was his to accept, his to face, his to win.

His father wasn’t having it, though. Uther reached out, stopping Arthur from reaching for the gauntlet, and Pellinor got there first.

It wasn’t fair.

~~~

Pellinor fought well. He had learned from watching the day before, had gotten the measure of the Black Knight, had seen his strategies. Pellinor had the advantage this time, and Arthur was sure it would work in his favour.

It had to.

Pellinor landed a blow. Straight into the Black Knight’s gut, nearly straight through to the other side.

It didn’t matter. The Black Knight carried on as if nothing had happened, pushed Pellinor down, killed him with one stroke of his massive sword.

Arthur jumped up. He threw down his gauntlet before Uther could stop him. This was his time, this was his fight, this was his _right_, this was his duty. He needed this. He needed to avenge his knights. He needed to prove that he was the better fighter, that he was stronger, that he was braver, that he was more in control.

Uther didn’t care. He didn’t see it. He didn’t believe Arthur can best the Black Knight. He didn’t think Arthur had the skills, the training, the mastery over his craft. He didn’t have faith in Arthur, in his abilities, in his discipline.

Arthur pushed it out of his mind and went to practise. If he could not make his father proud—he didn’t think he ever had, doubted he ever would—then he would have to draw from his mother. Surely she would believe in him, would trust his judgement, would support him. She would embrace him, wishing him the best, saying she knew he could do it, holding him close.

She would make it so that he could believe in himself.

~~~

Naturally, Merlin wasn’t any help, either. He, for once, seemed to be on Uther’s side. He said that now was the time for Arthur to show his wisdom, not his courage.

He didn’t understand. He had no idea the position Arthur was in, the kind of pressure Arthur was under, the kind of future Arthur was fighting for.

Gaius, at least, had the decency to keep his thoughts to himself, unlike Merlin. All Gaius did was offer him a potion—a nasty potion at that—saying it would take the edge off his nerves.

Not that Arthur was nervous.

Not that Arthur was on edge.

The potion helped, though.

It helped too much. Arthur woke up nearly twelve hours later, well after when the fight was supposed to start. He could hear it. He could see it from his window.

Uther was out there, fighting _his_ fight, claiming _his_ victory, ruining his chances of proving himself to his people and himself and his mother.

All he had ever wanted to do was make someone proud. His knights, his kingdom, his family.

Uther was stone. If Arthur wanted approval from his family, it would have to come from within, from wherever it was his mother lived inside him, from her and her alone.

How was he supposed to prove himself if Uther would never let him?

~~~

Uther won, by some odd miracle. The Black Knight exploded into ash, his wraith form returning to dust, the magic that kept him animated fading away. Arthur had never seen that particular sword before, but even he had to admit that his father fought well.

That didn’t excuse his behaviour, though. Arthur confronted him, anger rising to the surface as soon as he gave Arthur the usual look. He looked like he didn’t care, like he had gotten exactly what he wanted, like he was pleased with himself and the outcome.

Arthur couldn’t stand it. He couldn’t stand how his father made him feel. He couldn’t stand that nagging feeling that he was nothing, that Uther would never care, that he’d only ever be a disappointment. He couldn’t stand that Uther had taken away his chance to prove himself, to finally be worthy, to show what he was capable of.

“I believed you would die,” Uther said, and Arthur scoffed. Of course Uther believed that. Of course Uther had no faith in him. Of course Uther would see only the possibility of more disappointment. “And that was a risk I could not take.”

Arthur seethed. Uther had the kingdom in mind, not Arthur. Arthur was nothing, the kingdom was everything, and Uther needed an heir.

“You are too precious to me.”

Arthur breathed through his rage. He’d never been precious to anyone.

“You mean more to me than anything I know.”

Arthur paused. He listened.

“More than this entire kingdom, and certainly more than my own life.”

The words settled over him slowly, warmly, soothingly.

All he’d ever wanted to hear was some approval from a parent. He had given himself so many talks over the years, filling in for his mother, imagining what a different father might say. He had proven himself time and time again to no one, to himself, to his dead mother.

But Uther had said—Uther was saying—that he cared. He had seen Arthur, seen his strength, his bravery, his wisdom, his control. He had seen, and he had known, and he had cared.

Arthur was born out of love. His parents were married, enamoured, and he was wanted.


End file.
